


Cut 'n Clean

by buttheyrebrothers



Series: 12 days of Wincestmas [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Porn, Bottom Dean, Break Up Scruff, Episode: s09e13 The Purge, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Shaving, shaving!kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 08:10:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5532080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttheyrebrothers/pseuds/buttheyrebrothers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After their talk in The Purge and Sam's parting words "Same circumstance, I wouldn’t.", Dean tries to loose himself in alcohol but only looses his temper instead. He gets hurt and Sam is there to patch him up. If this is his last chance to be with his brother, Dean will take it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cut 'n Clean

Whoever says that alcohol is not the answer probably never lost the most important person in their life just because they couldn’t let them go. Ironic, when you say it like that. By refusing to let Sam go he may have lost his brother forever.

So he and Jack will spend the evening in the kitchen, trying everything to avoid thinking about Sam’s parting words.

_Same circumstance, I wouldn’t._

He knows Sam has been angry and rightfully so. Dean had fucked up big time. Not necessarily by letting Gadreel in, because if nothing else, he did save Sam. And Dean can’t bring himself to be sorry for that. It’s just not in him. He would have freed Lucifer to get Sam back out of the Cage without a single regret.

It’s Sam. There are no rules that could be applied, no rationality or even a real decision.

His biggest mistake had been to lie to Sam. He wonders how he could’ve been so fucking stupid. After he has seen so many times what lies do to their relationship. And he still chose that path again. Isn’t that the definition of insanity, to do the same thing over and over again and expect another outcome? Sam would know. Hell, maybe he should plead insanity. The lawyer in Sam should be able to work with that.

Dean feels pathetic, sitting in the empty kitchen with a now empty bottle of Jack and an empty life. He wishes the numbness would start to settle in already, because the ache in his heart and the pressure of tears behind his eyes are almost unbearable by now.

His body has started to feel hot and his stomach clenches like a fist whenever he thinks of Sam, and of what he has lost. The empty bottle shatters against the wood of their kitchen table and he’s surprised at the sound. Splinters plant themselves in his hands, but Dean is too far gone to care, so he just buries his face in his bloody hands, mindless of the shards sticking in his flesh. He doesn’t even feel them cutting the skin on his face or the blood that makes his skin sticky.

He must have zooned out because the next thing he knows Sam is kneeling at his side. His big, capable hands cradle Dean’s face and for a hysterical moment Dean thinks that the last months had been one endless, bad dream.

“What the hell, Dean?”

Or maybe not.

As much as it pains him, he shoves Sam away and mumbles a dismissive “I’m fine” at him. He hopes Sam’s indifference will be enough to deter his little apparently-not-anymore-brother from asking more questions. But when had Dean Winchester ever gotten what he hoped for?

“You’re clearly not. You’re bleeding Dean. So tell me, what happened?”

For no apparent reason that makes anger bubble up in his chest. “What do you even care?” he roars with a force that surprises him as much as Sam.

“What do I care? I can’t believe -. Fine, be that way.” With a huff Sam stands up from where he had been squatting next to Dean and starts to walk away. Again.

Dean will forever blame the stupid alcohol for the tears that spring to his eyes at the sight of his brother’s retreating back. He whispers a broken “Goodnight, Sammy,” sure Sam would be too far away to hear it. But one of the great traits of drunken people is their misjudging of their own volume.

When Sam turns back he wears that one pronounced crinkle between his eyebrows, the one that roughly translates in _I have it up to here with your bullshit_. The hard lines around his eyes only disappear when he notices the teardrops rolling down Dean’s bloody cheeks. His big brother almost never cries and the sight does something very complicated to Sam’s insides.

“How much did you have to drink?” Sam asks in a much softer voice, sadness and resignation dulling everything else he feels. He will never be able to just walk away from Dean.

“Not enough,” is the clip reply. There is not enough alcohol in the world to make him forget all the times he has failed his brother.

In lieu of anything to say Sam heaves a sigh and again steps closer to Dean, his gaze intent. Dean wouldn’t have been able to look anywhere else but the familiar face in front of him. These days it is rare for them to be so close to each other and he uses the opportunity to drink in every tiny detail he can.

He is startled out of his reverie when Sam gently grabs his hands to access the damage. Dean’s hands are a bloody mess and he sees that some of the flinders have buried themselves deeply into his flesh. Sam actually clucks with his tongue at the sight before his gaze returns to Dean’s bloody face.

“Your stupid scruff makes it impossible to ascertain the damage you did to your face,” he grouses, but for a moment Dean could have sworn he heard something suspiciously close to fondness and concern in Sam’s tone. Must be wishful thinking.

“If it bothers you so much you will have to shave it off yourself because I certainly won’t.” It is meant as a joke, to break the weird tension that has settled between them. Only, it comes out too soft and vulnerable.

Sam, who is considerable more sober than him, and is also an observable little fucker if he wants to be, picks up on his tone. Of-fucking-course he does. Dean braces himself for the blow, for being let down easy (or not, depending on how much resentment Sam harbors for him). But it never comes.

“I guess I have to, then. Come on, move your lazy ass.”

Again, Dean blames the alcohol (and the way his body always listens to Sam’s voice when it orders him to do something, the traitorous thing) for the way he hurriedly stumbles to his feet and follows Sam to the bathroom.

The bright light that greets him there helps to sober him up considerably. He still makes no move to leave. Dean has no idea what Sam tries to accomplish but his selfish heart leaps at the chance to be close to his brother again.

“Dean? Hey, man, look at me.” Sam’s voice sounds thin, edgy with barely hidden worry. Dean wonders what happened to make him sound like that when Sam reaches out to still his trembling hands. That’s when Dean realizes he is shaking like a leaf. Stupid alcohol. Stupid longing.

A warm hand lands on his shoulder, gentle pressure used to guide him towards the closed toilet lid. He sits down without protest, still slightly out of it, thrown by the proceedings of this overwhelming day. Besides, it feels good to let Sam take the lead, to give himself over to his brother. Sam may have lost his trust in Dean but that does not mean Dean has done the same. Deep down Dean knows that Sammy is still safe, is still _home_.

While he sits there, head down and frame still trembling, Sam rummages through the bathroom cupboard. When he returns to Dean it is with a razor in his right and shaving cream in his left hand. The sight baffles Dean despite its obviousness. Does Sam want to force him to shave himself? His confusion must have shown on his face because Sam gives him one of his impatient _I-have-an-idiot-for-a-brother_ looks and Dean feels a new set of tears spring to his eyes. He stubbornly refuses to let them fall, but to be subjected to this look again makes his stomach hurt while it swallows up his rapidly beating heart.

His little brother raises one of his eyebrows in question and he gives a barely discernible nod in answer. Their way of wordless communication is still intact (and yet a curse when actual words are needed sometimes).

They’ve never done this before and it feels oddly intimate to even think about what Sam is about to do. They had sex for Christ sake and still, this right here feels heavier than anything else they have done before. Dean has a feeling that this is more than the simple act of shaving or taking care of each other’s wound. This is a chance for him to show Sam that he still trusts his brother. That he still wants them to have this kind of relationship. The one where you give the other a way to hurt you, knowing they would never do it.

“First of all, I need to make sure you didn’t cut yourself too bad before I go anywhere near your face with this stuff.”

And with that Sam goes over to the sink, puts down the razor and the cream to grab a washcloth instead. He wets it with warm water and goes back to Dean to clean his face with gentle, careful strokes. The gesture is so tender Dean has problems reconciling it with the words Sam had spoken to him not even an hour ago. Still, he can’t help but press into the touch oh so lightly, face heating in embarrassment. He has never stopped needing Sam, loving, wanting him with every fiber of his fragile heart.

“Seems like there are only a few shallow nicks, your hands are far worse.”

That makes Dean look down, surprised at the sight of his mangled flesh. He looks back up at Sam again, dazed confusion for once openly displayed in his face. The alcohol, the accident, Sam’s strange behavior and unexpected closeness – something must have rendered his defenses useless. His mask has slipped sideways and he doesn’t even care.

Sam looks back at him like you would look at a kid, eyes soft and so, so old. “Let’s get them cleaned up as well, shall we?” And with that he makes a pair of tweezers appear out of thin air and starts to tweeze the splinters of glass and pull them out of his abused flesh. Sam works fast and expertly but still with utmost care. He had always been the one to stitch him up, wouldn’t hear a word about letting their father do it. It seems like by taking care of Dean’s wounds he can make sure for himself that his big brother is still alive, relatively okay and breathing. Not even ten minutes later Sam applies the disinfectant and bandages both of his hands. Not once do their eyes meet.

When Sam seems to be satisfied with his work he takes his time to put everything away to its proper place. Something about the utter Sam-ness of this gesture makes Dean smile for the first time this evening. His smile disappears however and is replaced by a new set of nerves when his brother takes the dose of shaving cream in his hands.

Sam rattles the dose and fills a generous amount of cream in the cup of his hand. His movements are steady but his eyes never meet Dean’s. Sam is just as aware of how big this is for them as Dean is, especially given the current status of their relationship. The moment Sam’s hand reaches Dean’s cheek, cool cream a stark contrast to his burning face, a shiver runs down his spine. Sam makes sure the cream is equally distributed, his hands gentle and warm. Dean gulps audibly at the sensation flooding his body.

Finished once again, Sam finally takes the razor in his hand before he slowly advances on him. The tension is rising with every step he takes towards an almost terrified Dean. He is so out of his comfort zone here and anticipation wars with fear in his chest. Rationally spoken, there should be no way he could fuck up things between them even more but that has never stopped Dean before.

And then Sam touches the razor to his left cheek and moves it down in a first, slow stroke.

Despite his own apprehension of the intimacy this simple act conveys, Dean finds himself still overwhelmed by the desire that pools in his groin at that first stroke. Intellectually, he is well aware that shaving is a serious kink for some people, but in all his years of sexual escapades, he never once suspected it could be one for him as well. Maybe it has more to do with the fact that it is Sam who does it. That Sam is the one to put a sharp object against his skin, holding the power to hurt him, with Dean helpless and at his mercy. And yet, his little brother does not abuse said power (not like Dean abused his when Sam had been unconsciousness and unable to protest, a tiny voice whispers). Instead, he does what Dean had done all their lives for him. Sam takes care of his brother. 

Sam slowly finishes up Dean’s left cheek, stroke by tantalizing stroke. Sometimes it burns a bit, whenever he hits a nick from the shards. But the slight pain, mixed with the maddening pleasure cursing through his veins, makes it even better. By now the signs of Dean’s arousal are visible for everyone who cares to look. He should be thankful that Sam’s gaze is intently trained on the task at hand. Dean is not sure which rules apply to this situation (if any at all) but he doesn’t want to break whatever spell they are under right now with the insistent erection trapped in his jeans.

He doesn’t even realize that his lungs haven’t drawn any air since the razor had started to glide against his skin until Sam stops his ministrations for a second to let out his own bated breath. To know that Sam is just as affected as he is helps a great deal to calm his nerves.

That is, until Sam directs his attention (and with it the razor) to Dean’s throat. As much as Dean would have wanted to stifle the needy moan that breaks out of his chest, he stands no chance. He feels so vulnerable, yet protected and being taken care off. It’s a heady feeling, one he’s sure he could get addicted to, were there ever a chance to explore it further.

He feels cool air against the freshly exposed skin, a stir caused by Sam’s shaky exhale. Still, the hand that works the razor continues its steadfast work as nothing has ever happened. From his head’s position, Dean is unable to see Sam’s face and it is driving him insane. He needs to see if Sam’s cheeks have turned the enticing shade of red they only take on if he is helplessly turned on. He craves to know if Sam’s tongue is visible between his pink lips, a sign of utmost concentration that is oddly endearing to Dean.

The chance to steal a glance presents itself when Sam turns Dean’s face down and to the left with a hand on his jaw, ready to start on his other cheek. The look Dean gets however is shorter than he has hoped for but he doesn’t mind as much either. Instead of Sam’s face, he finds himself confronted with the visible proof of Sam’s own arousal.  
  
The thick, hard length that catches his eye is so much better of a view. Sam has learned to lie with his face, had to in order to protect that big heart of his and survive their dangerous life. But his body tells Dean that, if nothing else, the desire, the want, is still there.  
  
Sex is not all that Dean wants from Sam, but it is something he could give his brother, something Sam would maybe still want from him.  
  
He thinks, here they are. Two brothers, bound by the very essence of their souls and still miles apart. Dean feels the ache, the actual physical sensation of a longing soul and the pain is slowly killing him.  
  
That at least is his excuse for what he does next, and it is as good as any.  
  
His hands go for Sam's fly, his reward a sharp inhale from his brother and another nick on his face.  
  
" _Dean_."  
  
Maybe it is meant as one but it doesn’t sound like a protest. Not at all.

It sounds like wonder and need, like his name should always sound like in Sam's mouth.  
  
He ignores his half-shaven face, which probably looks ridiculous. The only thing that matters is skin on skin, his mouth on Sam. Sam's hands in his hair.  
  
Dean hurriedly frees his brother’s throbbing flesh from its cotton prison, hungry for its unique taste. Their position brings his mouth at the perfect height, so he loses no time to lick off the first drops of clear liquid that have gathered at the head of Sam's impressive erection.  
  
Nothing is little about his little brother, a fact that no longer unnerves him. He has learned to embrace it, is even turned on by it so badly it makes him tremble with desire.

The salty tang is familiar and he feels once again reminded of all the times they had done this before. It's been months by now since the last time, and even if it is by no means the longest stretch of time they haven’t been with each other, it feels like forever. So much has changed since then and it makes his movements desperate.  
  
And so his lips close over the glossy head, starving for another taste of Sam. The sucking motion he makes earns him a cut off moan and the hands in his hair ball to fists. Just like that there is nothing he wants more than to make Sam lose the control he has hung onto all night.  
  
Surprising Sam is always a good way to go about that so he swallows down almost the whole length of him at once. The cockhead bumps against his throat and makes him gag. Tears spring to his eyes but his own cock is throbbing almost painfully in his jeans. The sounds Sam makes by now - deep and guttural like he can’t believe something could ever feel this good - are driving him insane with need. Dean’s inhibitions have been shaved off together with most of his scruff and he isn’t even embarrassed by the way he is thrusting into thin air in his search for friction.  
  
His own moans cause his throat to flutter around the flesh in his mouth.  
  
"Dean, _fuck_ , that mouth of yours"  
  
To hear his name, to have Sam acknowledge it's Dean who makes him feel like that, causes the heat in his belly to burn hot and bright.  
  
He swallows once, twice, and then starts bobbing his head up and down in earnest. The skin on Sam’s hips has started to get slippery with sweat under Dean's hands and his breath comes labored and uneven. Dean knows his little brother’s tells, no matter if it is poker, or lies, or sex. Sam is already close.  
  
But they aren’t finished yet. Not before Dean has one more chance to feel Sam inside of him. And so he pulls off with effort, Sam as reluctant to let him go as Dean is to let go of that gorgeous cock in his mouth. Sam’s hands hold him there for another few heartbeats before allowing Dean to pull back and look up at Sam.  
  
"Fuck me. _Now_."  
  
The needy groan he gets in reply almost sends him over the edge. Sam looks at Dean like he could devour him whole, burn off his skin, flay him wide open and make his home between his bones. But then his eyes clear from the lustful fog and he shakes his head.  
  
"We don't have anything here."  
  
Shit. Lube is in his bedside drawer but Dean knows if he leaves right now the moment will be forever gone. So he looks around in desperate search of something they can use to ease the way. After Stanford, he had once tried to take Sam without anything. It was an experience neither man wants to repeat.  
  
"The shaving cream!" he almost yells in excitement. It is right there. Dean pats himself on his back mentally for the great idea but his face falls at Sam's appalled look.  
  
“I'm not going to fuck you with shaving cream, Dean! Are you crazy?”

Sam could be such a prissy bitch sometimes. He would need to bring out the big guns then. His hand goes to Sam’s rigid cock once more, lazily pumping the hot flesh. With his other hand he goes to his own fly to free his painfully hard dick, mirroring the movement. He works both their cocks in tandem, gun training to keep both hands equally adept apparently helpful in more than one way.

“Sam, please, come one. Fuck me. I can’t wait, please –“

If there is one thing Sam can’t resist it’s a begging Dean. The inner fight that is clearly visible on the expressive face is, therefore, short.

“Okay. Okay. Fuck. Look at you.”

And with that he hauls Dean up to rid him of his jeans and underwear so fast you could think they have offended him personally. Dean helps as well as he can but whenever Sam gets like that he is like a tornado, unstoppable. A force of nature.

Dean is turned around like a ragdoll, like he isn’t 6’1’ and almost two hundred pounds. The thick and steady stream of precome that runs down his length tells the story about his stand on being manhandled by his little brother. Still, until his dying day he will deny the whimpers and mewls that spill out of him at the thought of being thoroughly fucked by Sam. Sam’s dominant side lies dormant most of the time, but the right triggers always make him lose it quick and dirty.

Exhibit A is the two fingers that breach Dean at once, slicked by the cream but still thick enough to burn intensely. Good thing he is beyond caring at this moment. He even hopes to feel Sam for days, because he can’t be sure there will be a next time.

The prep is fast and efficient, no lingering touches or excessive teasing. Once, Sam had gotten him off on his fingers alone twice before he had fucked Dean into the mattress. But they’re both too keyed up by now for that, so Dean actually sighs in relief when he feels the thick and slippery head at his entrance. That sound is followed by a shout when Sam shoves in all the way with one smooth thrust, impaling Dean on his big cock.

Dean feels so full so sudden it gives him whiplash. It hurts but it is also the best feeling in the world, Sam flooding his senses from all sides. His smell, the feeling of his skin, the heat of his cock and the pressure that makes Dean feel light and anchored all at once. And then, when he thinks nothing could ever feel better, Sam starts moving.

He withdraws almost all the way, until only the head is keeping Dean wide open; before he slams back in with so much force they both almost lose their balance. That is the rhythm he sets for them, hard and punishing, and Dean feels himself racing towards the finish line so fast it’s almost embarrassing. Sam skirts around his prostate, never hitting it dead on but teasing it, almost, _almost_ _there_.

And then something changes.

Dean takes one hand away from where it is supporting his weight against the wall to wrap it around his cook instead. Only, Sam wouldn’t have any of that, loves it too much when Dean comes from nothing but Sam fucking him relentlessly. So he grabs Dean’s hand and slams it back against the wall. The impact makes Dean wince in pain despite the happy hormones flooding his system right now. The wound on his hand starts bleeding again and the pain is instant and sharp.

“Shit, Dean. I’m, I’m sorry.”

He is stroking Dean’s arms, hips never stopping but now moving in an almost lazy rhythm. One of Sam’s hands finds its way to his chest to press Dean’s body flush against his, palm resting above the tattoo they no longer share. Sam’s nose is pressed behind Dean’s ear, punched out breath tickling the sensitive skin there. His other hand wanders down, from his arm over his shoulder and flank until it reaches his hip, where it stays to anchor them both. 

The pace of his thrusts has changed from short and urgent to long and deep, stroking over his most sensitive spot every damn time. Were the sounds out of Dean’s mouth high and needy before, they are now breathy moans, almost inaudible. His own orgasm comes of a surprise to him, even more so in its intensity, whole body going lax in Sam’s arms. He is only held upright by his brother’s tight embrace, Sam’s hips picking up speed again. Dean himself can do nothing but hold on for the ride and let his brother race towards his own climax while his body almost jiggles in Sam’s arms.

When he comes, Sam lets out one last shuddery breath that sounds suspiciously like Dean’s name. His movements still while he rests his forehead on Dean’s nape. They stay like that for another minute or two before Sam pulls out and cleans them up with Dean’s discarded shirt. Their eyes have still yet to meet.

Dean is looking at Sam, waiting for his little brother to say something, to acknowledge what they just did. Sam is the one who always wants to talk, who says sappy shit like “I still care about you,” so Dean is waiting. And indeed, after the silence between them has lasted too long to be comfortable, Sam looks at Dean like he wants to say something. But in the end, he doesn’t.

He only turns around with his back to Dean, and walks towards the still open door. There, he pauses.

“This doesn’t change a thing.”

The deafening silence does almost drown out the sound of a heart shattering in a million pieces.


End file.
